


Will Magnus Zinoviy Darid

by taurpio



Category: Unsounded
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad and Happy, Swearing, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taurpio/pseuds/taurpio
Summary: Will and the plat regiment learn about Duane's death, and learn the value of friendship.An answer to this prompt: https://unsoundedcomic.tumblr.com/post/189172365435Thanks to Rainwalker from the unsounded discord for gently correcting my weird prose, which was incredibly helpful considering my dumbass decision to write this in the fucking present tense.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Will Magnus Zinoviy Darid

WILL

It’s early in the morning, timid light barely reaching the windows of the barracks. Will is already awake, bent over his uniform, cleaning any speck of dust that might tarnish his family’s standing. The frigid matinal air and the even colder water of the sink bites through the skin of his left arm, left uncovered by the woolen undershirt. His right arm feels nothing. He pauses, and looks at it. Moves his mechanical finger aimlessly. They are just a bit too fast, too precise; inhuman in a way. A shiver runs through his body. He can still feel it where his real arm used to be. He tenses, closes his eyes, and forces a severe look on his still-childlike face.

A severe knock pulls him out of his thoughts. Without waiting, Amadwe William Argenti Sr enters the room. An imposing figure by nature, his stark silhouette was made more impressive by the complete and spotless military regalia. Will stands in a rush and salutes.

The calm voice of his father dismisses him.

“Soldier, I bear news to you, that I hope will serve as three lessons. Motadwe Duane Adelier is dead, slain this night by Alderode’s enemies in our very streets. All intelligence gathered points to a sad attempt to divide us by the Crescian Gefendur.”

Argenti pauses, waiting for a reaction. Will shows none. His father continues:

“The first lesson is the price of weakness. When given the chance, failure to strike your enemies with your full might will defeat you as surely as their blades. You knew Duane; he was by all accounts too gentle a soul in a world unfit for such men. He was also a master spellwright. And neither of these things saved him, nor his young daughter.”

Another pause. Will stood, stone-faced. His mechanical arm clicks for an instant, then went silent, reacting to feelings hidden.

“The second lesson is the price of indolence. Would the Gefendur be walking our streets, taking aimless stabs at our men, if we were in a position of force? If we were at Fluirstadt’s gates? If we were burning _their_ temples and idols in kind? Maybe Duane’s death shall be the morning bell that rouses our aspirations and stirs again our will to fight for this country. Maybe not. But Alderode will rise or fall by the willingness of her soldiers to die for her, and for the Faith. Do not be idle when the lions roam, hungry as ever.”

Argenti smiles, showing just a bit of pride for Will’s stoicity, or maybe for his own monologue.

“The third, you’ve already learned: the price of not knowing one’s place. Should Duane have stayed in his little ghers, or maybe simply not have become such a public figure; should Duane have known his _fucking_ place, he would surely be alive right now, as would his daughter.”

Argenti smiles, waits an instant for a reaction, then leaves the room without closing the door. As the footsteps disappear in the corridor, Will collapses.

* * *

MAGNUS

By the time the letter arrived, Magnus already knew. The city had been shaken by the news of Duane’s death. Houses had been ransacked, fugitives caughts, and heads had fallen. The Ssaelit were shouting for justice all over the land and even some Gefendur men had shared in their mourning. He didn’t believe the news at first, obviously. Duane was a gifted wright, a genius, a soldier, a man as unassailable as they come.

Yet as the days passed he had slowly accepted that this ugly world had once again taken another good man in its mad thrashing. That the khert must have already done its dirty job, dissolving any trace of an old friend into the vast sea of all the world’s torment.

Despite his personal knowledge of the khert’s timeless and boundless expanse, he had during three restless nights looked into his small, stolen farcyte fragment and found nothing. And though knowing the lack of signs from his old departed friend was no proof of his well-being, it had kept his meager hope going despite all common sense.

This last hope died on the morn of the fourth day, when the discrete letter had arrived. And now Magnus lays, weeping, reading Will’s words. If Duane had lived, surely Will would have known. Though Will had his doubts about the nature of the plot, he knew what everyone knew: Duane was truly dead. Hands faltering, he brings the letter to the candle-flame and watches as it burns. Then, shaken, tired and agrief, Magnus finally falls asleep. In his dreams, a remembered voice:

“Be brave, God is watching.”

* * *

ZINOVIY

Every morn since Duane’s death Zinoviy had burned two locks of hair. One in the bonfire of the ghers forum and one in secret, offered to the small forbidden shrine to Baelar hidden under his bed. Three days gone so fast; a blur of public prayer, demonstrations and mournful cries. Mixing himself with the Soud crowd to witness the grief and pride of the downtrodden faithful. He was hardly unnoticed, but his own grief looked genuine enough to be ignored.

And on this morning, he stands before his mirror. His hair already short, now a mess of sloppy cuts and singed locks from his inexperienced attempts at expressing grief like the civilians do.

On his desk, a letter. Written and delivered by hand from poor Magnus. An invitation of sorts, a gathering of all the survivors of their little regiment. The first one they’ll ever have. It seems weird to him now, how easily they had been separated, and how they had gone along with it. They’d seen each other since, of course, but never all together. The call of their new occupation and purpose, so readily answered for a chance to forget about the war, had been strong enough to let old friendships wane. But he would not miss this chance to see all their faces again. The sun is not yet up, but he is leaving to see his friends.

* * *

DARID

Darid stands on the cold forum of the Hethllot ghers. He’s more than two hours early, and the cold air bites through his clothes, but he doesn’t mind. He closes his eyes and feels the lines all around him, the aspects dancing with the wind, the khert calm, stable and waiting for a command. He lets his mind go blank, feeling every soul around him wander around their lives.

The school nearby resonates with half-formed spells, primitive but full of the hope and aspirations of children learning to control the very world around them. A factory further away is illuminated with the echoes of well-crafted pymarics, humming to a perfect rhythm.

Suddenly a spell breaks the calm, _momentum_ transferred, jumping from line to line, carrying something heavy.

“DARID!”

A joyful voice breaks the tension. Kelsey, his brother, come back from the temple in Tain just for the gathering. He’s skating gracefully through the cold air with so much more control and grace than he had when he left. He shouts Darid’s name, but just as he does he trips on an uneven stone. His full weight collapses onto Darid and they fall in the snow. Neither care much about the cold as they hug to make up for years spent so far away. One by one, the other plats show up: Ashley, Silas, Zinoviy... By the time Magnus arrives, they are all in tears, covered in snow, and laughing together.

Magnus is not so easily cheered, but the joy of finally seeing each other is contagious. They sit down around the bonfire, as Darid tends to it with the light touch of an experienced wright, and tell stories of their last few years, exchanging gossips from the ghers and tales from the outside world. Kelsey talks about the Northsongs, as he got the chance to see the holy book in the Temple of Winds.

As the talk shifts to religion, Darid sees Zinoviy pull back from the conversation. He moves over to him and offers gentle support.

“Your Tainish got a lot better, kid, I can hardly spot the accent.”

Zinoviy manages a smile.

“It’s not good enough though. They can all tell. They don’t think I’m a real Ssaelit.”

Darid pulls the boy in a hug,

“It doesn’t matter what they think. It doesn’t even matter what you are. Because what you are is our friend, our brother, and nothing can change that. They may talk, they may see themselves as better, but we all end up in the same place, so don’t mind those that just feed more envy and resentment to the khert.”

The adolescent looks up to him,

“But after today, you’re all gonna leave again. You’ve got your wife, and you and all the others have gotten important jobs. We’re all just here ‘cause Duane’s dead…”

The mention of Duane hits Darid like a knife, but the bitter guilt of having let everyone drift away somehow makes the blow harder. He nods, and stands up.

“We’re all here today to commemorate the life of two good friends, who are now gone to take their place into the great Unsounded. We’re all here to remember what they have done for us. But we’re also here to remember the bond we share. We fought together, we shed blood together, we put fear in the hearts of our enemies. We saw wonders, and we saw pain. We protected our fellow soldiers, and we killed. On the day we put out the khert fire, we in our turn saved Duane’s life, and changed history. We share a bond stronger than any ghers, stronger than the khert itself. But we’ve betrayed that bond, and let ourselves grow apart. I suggest that every year, on this day, we meet again, until all of us are gone from this world.”

And with these words, they all cheer. 

The conversation starts anew. Silas rambles about some boy who makes him incredibly angry for some reason, Kelsey talks about the girls he met in Tain, Ashley tells the grand tale of how he lost his ponytail, and Zinoviy falls asleep next to the fire, tired from the short night.

As the sun rises over the ghers building, a young woman approaches the group, and Darid jumps to kiss her. She introduces herself as Lylia, and the other plats battle for the chance to tell their aureate and fanciful tales. They speak of valiant battles and night attacks, of crazed beasts and spellfire. But as they start talking about Jon, Lylia asks why he’s not here. Darid freezes, and tries to find his words, but already Ashley is telling grandiose stories about his heroic death, vanquishing hundreds of Vampire’s soldiers.

As the day continues others join the circle, and the tales of Jon and Duane are shared with anyone who will listen. The boys replay the major battles wearing glamours of enemies and allies, imitating Duane’s prose or Vampire’s antiquated speech as best as they can. Silas even disguises himself as Magnus to gently mock his imprudence.

Night has fallen when they part, nearly frozen but warm with joy and continued friendship, and the promise to join again as soon as they can.

As Darid and Lylia walk home, he feels a pang of guilt over what they’ve missed until today, but he knows that with them, the memories of Duane and Jon are more alive than they’ve ever been.

When they finally get to their apartment, he sits to his desk, and starts writing a letter to Will. Fuck the castes, fuck the ghers, he’s writing a letter to his friend.

* * *

Copy Editor: Rainwalker

Author: Ceandros @ ceandros.tumblr.com


End file.
